


Skin Game

by KIBITZER



Category: Higurashi no Naku Koro ni | Higurashi When They Cry, Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, EVERYONE WON THE TRAUMA LOTTERY, F/F, HOT RIVAL ASSASSINS, Illustrated Work, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KIBITZER/pseuds/KIBITZER
Summary: No one could believe the families had turned to bloodshed. The city’s ancient founders—Ushiromiya, Sonozaki, and Furude—stood against each other in open conflict, and one might think it would topple the government entirely; the fact that life kept turning as usual was, perhaps, only another contributing factor to the surreality of it all.Revolving around one torn-asunder town and the families vying for control of its resources, as well as the guns-for-hire in the eye of the storm, Skin Game chronicles the lives of two protagonists: Ushiromiya Kyrie and Takano Miyo.





	Skin Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Excited to finally post Skin Game :D   
> A note about this fic: it's presented in both comics and writing. For the optimal experience, each chapter includes a link to a dedicated mirror. You'll be linked back here at the end of the chapter :)   
> If you don't want to or aren't able to for whatever reason, you can read it right here on Ao3 as well. The only real change is aesthetics. :) 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> [Read on dedicated host site](https://www.dieselhands.com/skin-game/1)

The three scarce months of peace following June 1983 were like a shared dream. The city, dense with human life, cobwebbed by electrical wiring and drenched in sticky summer rain, seemed to separate briefly from reality as if cloaked in an illusion.

June of 1983 had been sweltering, an ominous constrictor of heat coiling the city. The city’s ancient founding families—Ushiromiya, Sonozaki, and Furude—stood against each other in open conflict, and one might think it would topple the government entirely; the fact that life kept turning as usual was, perhaps, only another contributing factor to the surreality of it all.

Blood was thick in the air after the Crisis. A year prior, in 1982, blood had been spilled under the banner of the ouroboros—attempting to upheave the power balance and unseat the three families, a fourth faction spread discord under the name Jörmungandr. The ouroboros mercilessly targeted the three families, sparking a fire that would boil the blood in their veins until the inevitable explosion.

Jörmungandr’s biggest move, the assassination of Ushiromiya Kinzo, had the eagle wing-clipped and unfit for council—leaving Sonozaki Oryou to take mayoral position, against the council’s previous vote. In Ushiromiya’s absence, demons butted heads with cats; when Sonozaki pushed to strike back, always aggressive and assertive, Furude adamantly kneecapped them in every way with their cautious politics. Furude’s grip on Sonozaki’s assets and their frequent vetoes had Sonozaki boxed in like a lion in a cage, striking at nothing and ripping themselves bloody on wire-mesh walls. Sonozaki’s recklessness kept Furude’s cautious claws occupied, shredding millions in resources to hold security together, until Furude itself seemed a clinical shell of its former warmth. Ushiromiya, ever the mediator, dragged itself from the mire of grief to act between them—setting a balance, as best it could be done, as is the royal eagle’s duty.

But it was too late.

Jörmungandr had remained silent after their initial attacks. The faction of the ouroboros seemed to simply disappear once they shoved Sonozaki against Furude enough, once they had stained the already strained relationship with gunpowder and soot. Even with Jörmungandr gone, and no further harm coming to the government’s staff, Sonozaki was whipped into a frenzy, finally pushed over the edge after centuries of rule. They wanted Furude gone.

No one could believe the families had turned to bloodshed. Founded on the united shoulders of the three families, the city was bolstered by an elective council of six, appointed by vote to balance the representatives of the three families and prevent a unified dictatorship.

When Furude fell, it was as simple as adding a seventh elective seat.

The Furude Extermination of June 1983 was violent and quick, like snuffing out a dozen candles, and left only one; the heir apparent, Furude Saiko. Young and untrained, she chose to take shelter and live, rather than reach for Furude’s council seat. Shielded by a bodyguard from Devil Nation, Furude Saiko took cover, and disappeared into the shadows.

In her place—in Furude’s place—others rose. With Furude gone, Ushiromiya alone could not reign in Sonozaki’s recklessness, and security faltered. The market was ripe, a banquet for hyenas after the lions’ brawl. For three scarce, surreal months, the city stood in a teetering silence, unbalanced on the edge of destruction. In August of 1983, the silence ended. A new group moved in on the field, seeping into the underground and black market with a wit and competence Sonozaki struggled to match. But Sonozaki, mouths still red with bitter blood, reveled in the crash, seizing upon their next rival with feral glee.

# \- 1984 -

It was clear from the beginning that this was not a fight they were going to win. Even Kyrie, the youngest on her side of the fight, could tell that much. Her fluttering rabbit’s heart, pumping hot blood throughout her body, kept the November chill at bay, but a cold hand seized her heart when she realized they would not win.

Her family stuck together. Fought together. But no one wanted to be first to admit defeat. Not even when they were outnumbered and outplanned.

This was a feud between her family and theirs. Pride was as important as territory. Saving face was a natural part of winning resources. If they were seen as weak, as cowards, their strength would be instantly undermined. Such a defeat was costly. It was better, then, to stand out as long as possible, to hold out until even the enemy would find it respectable and even impressive that they stood so long before retreating.

That was, at least, the theory of it.

The opponent was a large group of people flagging Sonozaki green, a stylized demon’s face stitched onto gloves or sleeves, each armed with metal pipes or bats or similar blunt weapons. They were jeering, laughing amongst themselves now that they were so clearly winning.

“Get back to where you came from!” one called, brandishing an aluminum bat, a promise just as much as a threat. “This is our town, scum!”

“You should be grateful,” another howled, “that we’re letting you off with a warning! After what happened to Furude, you'd think people would know not to fuck with us!”

A chorus of agreeing snarls and barks of laughter. These were devils in lions’ fur, Kyrie thought, delighting in whatever misery they could find, content with whatever offal was left to them. After their brawl with Furude, snapping the necks of a few hyenas was a mere afternoon delight.

The feud was fresh to her family, but these devils had been at war for months, if not years, already. These men and women had already been whipped into a ravenous frenzy, and they leapt on a new challenger with relish, already ignited by a previous battle.

Perhaps the Sonozaki supporters were thankful at their foes’ stubbornness, welcoming them with glee as the two sides clashed again. Bats met flesh, and blood roared louder than voices, and all was chaos—Kyrie, too, threw herself in then, realizing she could not simply watch her family fight.

Though she was small, she knew where to aim her punches and kicks, going for every vulnerable spot she could reach. She was not strong, but she was quick, flitting between grownups to avoid fists aimed her way, staying low to the ground, where she was harder to hit. She bruised more than a few shin-bones from there, her sneakers dragging abrasion wounds down their legs, and when they tried to grab for her, she went for the abdomen or groin. More than a few adults in her life had seen the breath knocked out of them that way. If they managed to lay hands on her, they were bitten and clawed at until she wriggled free—if they pulled her in close, she went for the face.

Surrounded by Sonozaki green, she thrashed like an animal, kicking and spitting at any who drew too close. The frenzied demons had no qualms about fighting a child--once the initial surprise at the sight of her subsided, they descended on her like they did the rest of her kin.

The Furude family had fallen from power less than a year ago. These bloodthirsty mongrels hadn't had the time to settle and become complacent. But the void left behind by Furude was a perfect opening to any who wanted to expand their business into the capital. As Sonozaki reclaimed the funds Furude had squirreled away for security measures, those measures collapsed inward, and it seemed Sonozaki liked that. They liked the slaughter. They liked open war.

The capital had been anyone’s game after Furude fell. Sumadera, Kyrie’s family, had merely been first to the draw.

Slipping into the city had been easy, a scalpel sliding under skin, expanding their business onto the black markets Sonozaki ruled. Kyrie didn’t know if Sonozaki reacting with all-out war had been part of the plan—but Sumadera was proud, and above all, difficult to kill. If Sonozaki wanted all-out war, they would have it. The Sumadera family was resilient. They dug their teeth and claws into the business they had managed to accrue and held on, taking physical and verbal abuse without flinching, never once unlocking their vice-grip jaws.

A blow from an iron rod to the abdomen knocked the wind from her lungs. Kyrie coughed, watching like a mere outside observer as her own brain spun into a breathless panic, desperately trying to jog her body into taking oxygen. She collapsed onto the asphalt street, and was discarded—her opponent stepped over her as if she wasn’t even there, fully content with ignoring a child once it was incapacitated. Faintly, as if through a tunnel, she heard voices; her opponent, pointing to her, was a blurry figure silhouetted in the streetlight’s glow.

Indignation burned even brighter than the lack of air in her lungs. She wasn’t a worthy opponent, not someone to linger by—an enemy they could easily dispose of, but wasn't worth their time. She coughed and wheezed, fighting for breath, and now pain bloomed with every panicked gulp of air, radiating from her abdomen. Slowly, still heaving, she pushed herself up to her hands and knees, only to find herself surrounded again by green. She looked around, teeth bared in some deep primal instinct to intimidate, knowing that she was helpless.

A devil laughed. Another reached for her. She was powerless still, thrashing weakly as they lifted her up by the collar but unable to wrest herself free. She was turned around, back pressed against the Sonozaki supporter’s front, pinned in place with a single arm, and a flash of steel announced the thing she had feared most.

The sea of green before her parted, and she saw her family again, battered and bruised but ferocious—and they saw her, blade held to her throat, and froze.

Kyrie still gasped for breath, but the promise of blood pressed against her throat had her struggling to suppress it, choking on her own panting, struggling to breathe and yet forced to not breathe. Trying to free herself was futile. Her strength up against an adult man’s was a match akin to trying to topple a mountain with her bare hands. The hold smelled of tobacco and sweat. Her lungs and trachea felt shredded, on fire with the strain.

“Kyrie!” Her father shouted first.

“Is this your little heir?” when her captor spoke, Kyrie could feel the deep sound vibrate through his torso. “Cute kid.” The hand that held the knife gave a brief respite to ruffle her hair—a moment she took to breathe freely, chest heaving, now not only with exertion, but also terror.

“You take your hands off her, now!”

Various chuckles ran through the crowd. Kyrie leaned her head back, as far from the blade as she could get, as if she could will her throat away from it too. “You Sumaderas are business people, no? No, I know; you’re all over our shit like a bunch of dirty flies—how about this trade: turn around, and go home, and the puppy here gets to join you.”

Kyrie heard a deep, inhuman panting, and now, behind them, melting out of the darkness with heavy, excited breaths, came six dogs. They were large dogs, tan and black, with cropped ears and sharp, intimidating faces. Kyrie watched them out of the corner of her eye as they flanked her, fear crawling across her flesh in waves. The Sonozaki dogs were legitimate, deadly attack dogs; even she knew that much, it was impossible to miss the dogs swarming the Sonozaki estate, to not hear urban legend of their ferocity. Their handlers, following close behind, carried the rolled-up leashes in one hand and weapons—knives, this time—in the other.

Already bruised and battered, her family was on edge. They had already been losing, and in critical condition once a hostage had been taken. Adding blades and dogs to the mix was the final nail in their coffin—at least for this fight, for this fraction of the war. Kyrie struggled to hold back the tears that forced themselves to her eyes, hot and just as burning as the shame she felt. She wanted to beg. She wanted to plead for her life.

She clamped her mouth shut, but knew her lips were quivering, a pathetic sight. She stared at her family without saying anything, and they, too, were tensely silent. There was her father and his brothers-in-law, her mother, and cousins—silver hair and blue eyes, all the same apart from her dad, marked outwardly by the blood they shared. She glanced at her father, who stuck out like a sore thumb, dark-haired and brown-eyed. His eyes met hers, cold and hard in his bruised face, and then darted to the side. She followed them, eye to eye with her mother now. If her father had cold eyes, her mother’s were a place that knew only a memory of warmth, a sub-zero graveyard devoid of compassion.

Kyrie struggled, and the knife nicked her throat. The pain startled her, shocked her into freezing again, and she felt hot and cold at the same time with absolute despair as one by one her family looked to the family head’s judgement. Kyrie felt the tears rolling down her cheeks, saw them blurring the scene in front of her, and blinked hard to clear her vision, but more sprang forth immediately. The world stood still around her.

As if in slow motion, her mother sneered. “No deal.”

“So this pup is— _fuck_!”

Kyrie’s teeth clamped down hard on the carelessly gesturing hand, and she tasted copper when he tried to pull away. The knife sliced along her cheek and clattered from her assailant’s grasp, and in the midst of the blood, as blows rained down upon her from the man’s free hand, she heard running footsteps. For a moment, she dreamed of rescue, and her heart soared—but once she slipped from her assailant’s grip and regained her bearings, she only saw retreating backs. Her family was running away.

She, too, scrambled to a sprint, barely avoiding fingers that reached out to grab her from behind. There was a shout, loud and sharp as a whip cracking, and six sets of clawed paws set into motion. She ran, sneakers skidding on the concrete, to follow her family and escape—but her legs were too short, her body too weak, and she could practically smell the dogs closing in on her.

The crunch of bone reached her before the pain did. She bit back a scream as she went down, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. As soon as she was down, the other five dogs were on her, leaping into the fray with manic enthusiasm, ignoring the other escapees.

Family. Her family would help. Pack against pack. Her father, mother, uncle—no, they were still running away, they hadn’t noticed. Couldn’t have noticed. Would’ve come back—wouldn’t they? A knife to her throat, or a dog—would one move them when the other had already failed to? She sobbed still, unaware of it at this point, choking on air and salt and pain.

Dogs mouthing at her hands and arms when she tried pushing them away, warning nips, heavy paws upon her body holding her down. Their breath was hot and smelled foul. The dog that had caught her first was still attached, jaws clamped like a vice around her leg. There was shiny fur everywhere, black eyes and glistening teeth, excited grimaces of dogs trained for this very thing.

She heard a sharp man’s laugh mixed in with the noise of dogs scuffling, followed by a more authoritative shout from a woman. Immediately, the dogs leapt aside and returned to their masters, obedient as soldiers. Shaking, she pushed herself up into a half-sitting position, eyes stinging with dust and clouding with moisture. She blinked her eyes clean and immediately regretted it when her vision cleared and she saw her lower leg.

A massive dog bite, her flesh punctured in a perfect mold of its teeth, was steadily pumping shockingly red blood down her ankle and onto the concrete. It ran in rivers from the wound and pooled below, quickly soaking her sock and sneaker. Her stomach turned, her vision blurred, her brain spun, and she felt so dizzy it was impossible for her to comprehend the words spoken to her by her assailants. She felt her breath ripping through her lungs and throat, and her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, and she felt like her rational mind was seeping out of her with every spurt of blood.

She tried to move, to get to her feet, but moving was more agony than she thought her body could possibly contain. Her vision went momentarily black, and her thoughts swirled like water going down a drain, and she lost consciousness to the sound of a distant rumble that was quickly becoming a roar.

She came to, only moments later, unable to find the mercy of unconsciousness, and a bright light blinded her. She squinted against it.  The noise was deafening now, and the ground below trembled. Bracing both palms against the concrete, she tried to push herself up, to see, to know, but the weakness in her body sent her back down immediately. Her mind was swimming. She heard shouts, running feet, a chaos of noise and light and blood—

She looked up, and in the mouth of an alley to the left of the fight, she saw her father lit up white as a ghost in the bright light. Her vision swam, but she still saw him flinch away from her gaze like a child caught doing something forbidden, hastily turning away and vanishing into the darkness. Her ears were ringing as the moment ended, and the world turned to haze again, before her head rolled back until the alley was out of her field of vision and static overtook her thoughts in waves of nausea.

Hands lifted her to a sitting position. She grit her teeth against the pain, and managed to cling to consciousness, though her vision blackened at the edges until she might have been in a dark tunnel. Slowly, it cleared, and she blinked against the sight of an unfamiliar face.

It was an adult man, maybe about the same age as her own father, and he looked decidedly out of place for the area—too tidy, too kept, ponytailed hair barely tousled by the calamity that ravaged her. He was asking questions, she realized, and she was answering, in short mumbles that maybe weren’t even legible as words. She focused, trying to keep her attention away from the pain and fear.

“We need to call an ambulance,” he was saying.

Even through the fog, she felt objection bubbling like a pot boiling over, and she reached up, seizing his lapels with one panicked hand. “No! We can't afford it,” she gasped.

The man took her trembling hand. “You're a child,” he sounded confused, impatient. He pried her grasp open. “Care for minors is free.”

Confusion was a dull blanket of static, locking her tongue in place, sealing her lips before she could speak. _That's not what Dad said._

Before she could undo the lock mere thought put on her, the sound of skidding footsteps pulled her focus away. Low in the man’s throat, a rumble of displeasure rose.

“What are you doing, man?!” It was a girl’s voice, cutting through the dead night like a knife. Kyrie, through the haze of pain, recognized the voice as the one that had ordered the dogs away. “Call an ambulance or something!”

“Yes, I—”

“There's a pay phone on the corner,” the girl cut in. “Go. It's better if it’s you. _Go!”_

A moment passed, as if her savior longed to argue, before he disappeared from her side.

The girl kneeled, putting her face close to Kyrie’s, in perfect focus at last. She was young, no more than a teenager, but her eyes had a severity in every glance that betrayed a level of experience Kyrie couldn't even fathom. Her slender face was framed by locks of green hair, bright emerald even in the dark of night. Kyrie felt a jolt, shock staggering her heartbeat. _Sonozaki green._

If the Sonozaki girl noticed Kyrie’s surprise, she made no effort to soothe it. Instead, she started pulling off her jacket—her elaborate Sonozaki sukajan, black silk shining in the streetlight glow, light catching every gleaming thread in the large embroidery adorning the back. It depicted a demon, hand-stitched in bright red, jeering with blood and spittle on its protruding fangs—fresh from the kill, mocking the dead. It was a jacket modeled after Sonozaki Oryou’s own, and Kyrie had been told firmly: _stay out of the way if a woman with a demon on her back appears._

The girl clicked her tongue, annoyance clear, and draped her jacket over Kyrie. The collar went all the way up to cover her chin, and Kyrie looked down to see the demon, every stitch vibrant and shimmering up close. Like a blanket, the jacket kept her warm, and it dawned on her now—she hadn't even noticed she was cold.

“Listen to me, Sumadera.” Sonozaki’s voice had dropped to a hiss. “I need you to remember this night.”

It seemed laughable to even imply she could forget it, and Sonozaki seemed to understand the sarcastic smile that fluttered by Kyrie’s expression. She smiled, too.

“Yes, I know. But what I'm saying is, what I'm about to ask you is important. Quickly, before Lady Ushiromiya’s lapdog comes back. Do you promise? To listen, and remember?”

Kyrie squinted. The question was a little bit complicated. “Sonozaki,” she managed. “Fuck Sonozaki.”

“Such gratitude. I called off those dogs before the guys had you killed, you know. You're one of those people that would rather die as a lion than live a thousand years groveling, aren't you?” Sonozaki smiled, tightly. “Shut up and listen to me. My name is Sonozaki Akane. Did Jörmungandr send you?”

“Jör—What?”

“Answer.”

“I don’t know?—I don’t know what that is.”

“Playing dumb or too stupid to live—which are you?” Akane’s expression radiated displeasure. “Sumadera may be new, but your appearance here was no surprise to house Sonozaki. We don’t give a shit about you—you’re trash blood. But some believe you work with Jörmungandr—and I assure you, if that is the case, you will not see a happy ending. I’ll _personally_ see those fucking snakes _burned_ _._ If your life has any worth, pick your allies wisely from here on out. You—on my side—would be of value. That's all.”

She looked around, then jabbed one finger into Kyrie’s chest, between the demon’s laughing eyes. “Sonozaki Akane. Remember me, Sumadera. Remember who saved your life tonight, and if you tell a soul I was here, remember who can take that favor back. You stick with Genji--that guy who's calling the ambulance--and he'll keep you safe for sure. We’ll speak again.”

And then she was gone, sneakers beating across the pavement as if the devil she left behind on Kyrie’s chest was chasing at her heels.

She quickly saw why: the man called Genji returned to her side mere moments later. “The ambulance is on its way,” he said. “Hang in there.”

She didn’t respond, diverting all of her energy to keeping herself conscious. She drifted in and out of the haze, and her thoughts kept spiraling back in on the Sonozaki girl. She had chosen Kyrie, for whatever riddle she was gnawing on—like a roulette wheel, randomly choosing her pocket over all the others in the world, she had trusted Kyrie to be her winning bet.

A Sonozaki.

This war was a feud between her family and Kyrie’s family. Sonozaki Akane seemed to think she was above all that.

Kyrie’s mind stalled and looped back. Her family. They should have come to get her. They should have never left without her in the first place and let a _Sonozaki_ be the one to save Kyrie’s life.

They hadn’t come back for her. They had accepted losing her and fled. An Ushiromiya pawn was gathering the broken pieces.

She had been abandoned. Her family had used her as a sacrificial lamb, tossed her into the lions’ den and used the distraction to run. If the Sonozaki were demons, cackling over victory as they picked at the bloody scraps, then Sumadera were mere carrion crows. Waiting, hungry, but ready to take flight and flee at the slightest threat. And they would fly without caring for a bird with a broken wing, content for as long as they were not the one dead.

The sharp blade of pain that precisely dissected her heart was far more excruciating than her destroyed leg.

* * *

Hospital rooms were quieter than any other rooms she had ever been in.

Kyrie stared at the clock for an hour each day, counting the ticks of the second hand, watching the minute hand slowly make its turn. Her hospital room was still like the grave for that hour. No one visited her during it. No doctors. No nurses.

Certainly not her _family_.

It became a ritual. Every day, she set aside the things the hospital lent her. Comics from the play room, puzzles, the radio, everything stacked onto the side table for one complete hour. She folded her hands in her lap. Minutes passed, transforming themselves into an hour, bit by bit. It felt significant to her, somehow. A bit of stillness for quiet reflection. A bit of simply leaning into the pain instead of ignoring it.

It was peaceful, in a dull kind of way. One day, she thought: maybe this was how people felt when they prayed.

The gossamer-light curtains tainted the sunlight in yellows and greens. On the coat rack by the door, Sonozaki Akane’s black sukajan was hung up. If it hadn't been there, Kyrie would have doubted her memories of seeing Akane were even real.

Her surgery, days ago now, had gone well. The dog’s bite had been powerful enough to break bone, something the doctor called a crushing injury. A metal plate was in place, inside of her leg, holding the bone pieces together. Conceptually, it was upsetting. She had asked to see the X-rays, and an amused radiologist had allowed her a side-by-side look at the images taken before and after the operation. Visually, it was bizarre.

The wound had been stitched together and wrapped up, sparing her the view, but a constant throbbing ache reminded her at every waking moment.

The nurses called her brave. They crooned how strong she was.

The empty praise found no purchase inside her hollow heart. They were lying. They didn't know a thing. She had been abandoned because she was too weak. She had failed her family. It was only natural for them to dispose of stragglers. That was the way of the apex predator. To seek fragility, and exploit it, cutting away weak links without mercy.

Tears burned behind her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. _Weak. Too weak. This is why they don't want you._

She wondered if even her sister thought so. Kasumi was a year younger than Kyrie. They were tight-knit, never usually apart for longer than hours. Maybe Kasumi had known all along that this weakness would destroy her sister before they were even adults. That Kyrie had no chance. That the laws of nature that governed this land would leave Kyrie out to die. That only one of them would make it in a place where only the strong survive.

Kasumi had never looked like she thought that. Every time burning tears had Kyrie screwing her eyes shut, she saw her sister’s smile, as if Kasumi had been etched inside her eyelids.

Mom. Dad. Kasumi. She hadn't heard from any of them. Hadn't seen them. Maybe they were happier now. They didn't need her.

Maybe they had already forgotten all about her.

The hour was up. Kyrie reached for the radio.

Only the lounge and lobby had televisions, but her room had a small radio, and she found great use in it. Filling the void of her own thoughts with voices and music that didn't care about her, stories of lives that had never touched her own and would go on regardless of her. She held the radio with both hands for a moment, contemplating, descending down the dark rabbit hole of that idea. In the grand scope of the world, she was nothing but a useless set piece, a _thing_ to be used and discarded on a whim. Her existence didn't matter in the long run. The fact that she had been born hadn't even impacted her own family.

Kyrie turned on the radio.

“…derailed today at three forty-one p.m., causing severe traffic blockages and commute stall. Emergency services are still extracting passengers from the wreck and transporting injured commuters to the local hospital. Reports are still coming in regarding the extent of damage the train has caused. We'll be back with more accurate numbers as soon as we know more.”

“Thank you. To repeat this emergency broadcast one more time: there has been an accident involving the three thirty p.m. train between—”

Kyrie turned the dial, interrupting the broadcaster with a spark of interference followed by gentle classical music. Not to her taste. She turned the dial again and again, pausing only a few seconds on each channel. Several discussed the emergency broadcast. She passed them all by without listening.

Hundreds of lives separate from her own. Thousands of deaths outside her own cramped world. Millions of tragedies she was too limited to mourn. It was better, then, to merely turn the dial and tune it out.

Outside, the first snow of December had just barely begun.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

None of Mrs. Ushiromiya’s three daughters were close enough to Kyrie in age that spending time with them felt truly natural. She was twelve; she wanted to play games that were too childish for Eva and too grown-up for Rosa, and even though Natsuhi would always patiently humor any of the younger girls, she was usually far too busy to spend much time playing with them.

Ushiromiya Natsuhi was the family's eldest daughter, nineteen years old, and devoted much of her time to her study. The silver ring on her finger, cast in replica of the golden ring of the family head, demanded that she apply herself and work towards making herself a suitable heir. In addition to school, she attended council meetings with Mrs. Ushiromiya--observing and studying official meeting practices, committing to memory every strategy and law she needed to someday take the reins. Just like Sonozaki, the Ushiromiya family head would always sit on the city council; Natsuhi needed to be ready to govern once her mother stepped down. For now, she was a milquetoast duckling following after her mother’s every move; kind, yes, but Kyrie thought she lacked substance—as if expressing any strong opinion or emotion would scatter her very being into dust on the wind.

Ushiromiya Eva was fake and arrogant, seventeen years old, in senior high school. Her navy blue school uniform contrasted sharply with her shimmering copper hair, but a striking palette suited her strong facial structure, ensuring none could ignore her presence. She had a special drawl in her speech that always made Kyrie feel like she was being made fun of. Out of the sisters, Eva seemed the most athletic—she attended martial arts classes after school two days a week, excelled in sports, and was quick to threaten violence if things didn't go her way. Though she earned Lady Ushiromiya’s praise for both her academic and athletic performance, that alone wasn’t enough. Eva carried the gaunt evil of an overachiever, always ready to step on others to raise herself up, and no amount of validation was ever enough for her. Kyrie learned to stay out of her way, lest she become a target for Eva’s annoying snide comments.

The youngest of the three was Rosa, a mere toddler—two years old, she was a sweet girl who was never seen without her favorite stuffed rabbit. She had an immediate fascination with Kyrie that Kyrie couldn't quite understand, and would often follow her from room to room just to be near her. Rosa rarely spoke unless spoken to, but watched the world around her with an unparalleled thirst for knowledge and understanding. Since Mrs. Ushiromiya’s days were busy, Rosa was often toddling around by herself, just like Kyrie. Kyrie had learned not to mind her too much; she was quiet, a bit too shy to interrupt Kyrie’s reading or games, so it was easy to forget she was even there.

Naturally, she didn't feel particularly close to any of the sisters. She missed her own sister—but thinking about the Sumadera family was complicated and difficult, so she never lingered on the thought. Eventually, the etching of Kasumi inside her eyelids began to smear and fade away.

She barely saw Mrs. Ushiromiya’s coat tails; the family head was much too busy to linger in any one room for too long. All the sisters, even little Rosa, had a self-sufficient streak that told Kyrie it had been this way a while. Lady Ushiromiya had been very kind when they had met, and Kyrie would be surprised if she ever saw the woman angry, but in everything she did, there was a discordant sense of _other,_ like she was never fully present in the moment—something nobody discussed, and Kyrie soon learned not to mind. Adults had often dismissed complex things as “just how it is”—Kyrie supposed Lady Ushiromiya’s presence in the world being like oil on water was just another of those things.

Genji interacted with her the most, and she supposed she appreciated his attempts. His views were too neutral and pacifist to resonate with her, but he was at least quiet and unobtrusive. She got the feeling he tried to play the part of a father figure—not just to her, but to all of the sisters—but remained too devoted to his idea of servitude. He wasn't a person as much as he was a piece of furniture; silent, opinion-less, inoffensive and steadfast.

Kyrie preferred to make Genji talk about himself rather than answer his inane questions, and it became a game—he was unwilling, reluctant to overstep the personal boundaries of the butler, and the words she forced from him became trophies.

On the easier stages of the game, he spoke of the city, the three-family government, and Furude’s fall from power. He explained the mutual exchanges of privileges that locked the three families together in equilibrium, and how they had ultimately failed in the wake of Lord Ushiromiya’s murder, letting Sonozaki lunge at Furude’s jugular in 1983. She absorbed this information readily, with a hunger she rarely felt when Genji was speaking. He detailed the elective seats, how the people chose six (”well, seven, now”) of their own to balance the families’ rule, and how those council members voted one into higher mayoral power every year.

It was a little more difficult to pry out of him words about the Ushiromiya family personally. Once she pleaded hard enough, his tongue loosened, and he spoke of the sisters. His praise for them, yes, but often, worries. Natsuhi had always been soft and calm, and he worried for her in the cutthroat world of the higher government. He tip-toed around mentions of a brief stint of council rule she had been forced to undertake, a trial-by-fire after her father’s murder put Lady Ushiromiya out of the game--and how much it had exhausted Natsuhi to mediate by herself in a time of crisis. On the other side of the coin, Eva was too aggressive for her own good and had a hard time finding allies. Rosa’s quiet stare had him wondering what bound her tongue, but he assured Kyrie that he had in fact heard the toddler speak—even to express loud displeasure when her mood abruptly went sour.

If she dug a little bit deeper, he vaguely spoke about Lady Ushiromiya and her husband, and his own past. Though his words on these matters were always clipped and ambiguous, even Kyrie picked up on the fondness with which he spoke of the late Mr. Ushiromiya, and the waves of nostalgia mingled with embarrassment that followed his recounts of a rough-and-tumble youth in Taiwan. His rivalry and eventual friendship with Mr. Ushiromiya was a recurring topic in these wistful stories, and she suspected him of saying _far_ more than he intended once he became engrossed in these memories. More than once, he came to an abrupt halt, as if suddenly realizing how much she had coaxed out of him—they usually didn't talk again at all on those days.

It was one of those days. It was a frozen day of late December, and Genji’s mood had cooled to approximately the same temperature as the snow that buffeted the mansion and piled up on the windowsills. Kyrie had been living with the Ushiromiya family for some weeks, and while it was far from a home, it was warm and safe. She was excited to escape the confines of the hospital, and now made her way around the luxuriously carpeted mansion halls on crutches while her leg remained bandaged up and carefully tended to by a family doctor called Nanjo. Moving around felt nice, and the mansion was big enough that she still hasn't managed to explore it all, so she didn't find herself lacking things to do—but the walls here were unfriendly and strange, and the people who tried to relate to her were impossible to understand.

Lady Ushiromiya liked to gather her daughters for supper every day, uniting the family around the table as servants waited on them. Kyrie liked the food and the warmth of the dining room, but ultimately, the feeling of not belonging was at its strongest there. She sat at the end of the table, across from Mrs. Ushiromiya, constantly under her supervision—she often smiled kindly, but the almost glassy sense of absence in her was strong face to face. To her left and right were Eva and Natsuhi, with little Rosa taking a spot between Natsuhi and their mother. The small talk was unbearable. Mrs. Ushiromiya requested news from her daughters’ days, in her soft and warm voice that sounded far younger than she looked, and they each supplemented insignificant anecdotes that held unspoken volumes about how used to this impersonal ritual they had become. Kyrie never contributed.

If this was these people’s idea of a pleasant dinner time conversation, there really was no hope for them.

Kyrie maneuvered herself down onto the carpeted floor of the library room, making sure to position her wounded leg carefully. Level with the bottom shelves, she let her eyes and fingers trace the spines of books she had never heard of. This was her favorite part of the house so far. Mrs. Ushiromiya kept shelf upon shelf of her favorite books in this room, proudly displaying her literacy and good taste to any who might peek by. There were books of any genre, novels and encyclopedias alike, an eclectic but meticulously sorted collection of stories. She pulled out the ones that looked most interesting, looked them over, and put back the ones that betrayed her expectations at a glance.

She had just pulled one free from the shelf when the door behind her opened. She turned to look over her shoulder, bewildered at being disturbed.

“Oh, there you are.”

It was rare for Natsuhi to go wandering around the house. It was rarer for her to seek Kyrie out. Yet here she was, impeccable as always, offering her most soothing smile. There wasn't a wrinkle out of place in her skirt, even as she walked—all fabrics seemed to flow around her like water, a natural-born elegance Kyrie couldn't even begin to imitate. “What are you doing?” She leaned over Kyrie, peering down at the book in her hands.

Suddenly, Kyrie felt embarrassed, as if she had committed some crime by merely looking at the books. She tried to think of something to say to dismiss the feeling, but Natsuhi was faster, snatching the book from her hands before she could react.

“Oh, I remember this one,” Natsuhi said, in that airy tone of voice she often used when something piqued her interest. “I didn't know you liked mystery novels, Kyrie.”

“I, um, haven't read any before,” Kyrie admitted. “But the title was interesting, so I was…”

Natsuhi ran one dark finger along the book’s spine. _“And Then There Were None,”_ she read, a faint smile curling her lips. “Christie’s masterpiece, no? Give it a try. Even if you don't like it in the end, trying to solve a mystery is good for the brain. Mother put off finishing this one for a while because she wanted so badly to solve it before the end.”

She tucked a lock of chestnut brown hair behind her ear and offered the book back to Kyrie, who studied the cover before turning it over and skimming the back text. Natsuhi turned back to the shelves, running her finger along the spines. “Oh, try this one too,” she said suddenly, pulling a yellowed book out. “It's one of my favorites. I read this copy to pieces.”

To demonstrate, she leafed through the pages, and the brittle sound of sun-burned paper in loose bindings made even Kyrie nervous. She took it when Natsuhi offered it, scanning the front.

“ _Ten Thousand Light-Years From Home_?” She frowned, confused, at the cover and its satellites and planets.

“It's a collection of science fiction stories,” Natsuhi said. “I think you might like its tone. It's quite satirical, at times.”

“I'll try it,” Kyrie said vaguely. “Do—do you think Mrs. Ushiromiya would mind if I brought them up to the room?”

Calling it _her_ room felt wrong, but if Natsuhi noticed, she didn't try to force it on her. “Certainly not,” she said mildly. “She believes books are meant to be read, after all.”

Kyrie nodded. As soon as she moved to stand, Natsuhi was there, offering her hand for support. For a long moment, Kyrie considered blowing her off, but then her leg gave an angry throb and she bit down her pride. She tucked the books under her arm and took Natsuhi’s hand.

Once they stood in front of each other, Kyrie finally asked: “You were looking for me?”

“Oh!” Natsuhi nodded excitedly. “Oh, right! There I go again, always forgetting things. Yes, there's a letter for you.”

Kyrie looked up at her, not comprehending. “For _me_?”

“It was mixed in with the mail this afternoon,” Natsuhi said, drawing a paper envelope from her skirt pocket. “There's no full address anywhere, so the sender probably dropped it in the mailbox themselves. I think it's maybe from your friends at school. They probably miss you.”

Kyrie accepted the letter, but the numb coldness seeping into her veins turned her grip into a vice, crumpling it slightly as she examined it. It was a plain envelope, decorated with golden sticker stars, her name written in colored pencil on the front. Another sticker held the envelope shut, and in red a child’s handwriting proclaimed TOP SECRET.

“Isn't that nice?” Natsuhi’s voice sounded like it was coming through a dense tunnel, muffled by distance and echo. “You should write back later. I just wanted to give it to you; I'll let you run upstairs now.”

Kyrie nodded mutely, still focused on turning the letter over in her hands, examining every angle as if the envelope would eventually reveal some grand secret. Natsuhi’s theory was all well and good, she supposed—the lack of address, the cutesy stickers, the colored pencils, it was all distinctly childish and simple. The only problem was—well, put bluntly, Kyrie had no such friends.

When she reached the room the Ushiromiyas had given her, it was chilly. She had left the window open—she hated the cold, but preferred to sleep in a cool room, so she kept the bedroom drafty. She tossed the books and letter onto the bed and moved to close the window.

It was a guest room on the second floor, usually unused and largely forgotten. Like the rest of the mansion, it was furnished in expensive dark wood, with a thick wine-red carpet upon the floor that felt like a dream to walk on. The vast double bed was soft, and she felt she had enough blankets and quilts to warm a whole village. Though she was hesitant to acknowledge it as _hers_ , the room was admittedly one of her favorites in the mansion.

Once the window was closed (and locked, for good measure), Kyrie climbed up onto the bed, bundling up in her favorite comforter to keep the chill out. Cozy in her cocoon of blankets, she pulled the letter out from between the two books and examined it again.

Who had sent it? Why?

She supposed there was only one way to find out.

## THREE DAYS LATER

 

# \- 1986 -

October crept in like a ghost, consuming the final wisps of September with heavy, dark rain. The forecast spoke of autumn storms across the board and typhoons for the coast, and everywhere she looked, decay marched in to claim its season. Trees turned yellow and red under the hammering rain, death blooming in vibrant color.

Ushiromiya Kyrie was fourteen—one month short of her birthday, which would no doubt be just as awkward as the previous two. She had matured into understanding, somewhat, that the Ushiromiyas weren’t villains—but that didn't mean they knew her.

She didn't blame them for that. Her life was one that was never meant to intersect with theirs. People like herself and people like the Ushiromiya family could never understand one another. They were like animals of different species, forced to inhabit the same cage, and while they kept from tearing one another’s throats out they could never truly get along. That was simply the nature of the world, and Kyrie understood that now. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. She was a broken piece forced into a different puzzle, cut to fit and mashed into place, but that, too, was merely fate. She was cut to ribbons and emptied out, forced into a life she had never asked for, but the people doing that to her weren’t evil. It was a tragedy rather than a cruelty, but it still made Nomura’s appearance akin to an angel descending from heaven into her bleak fate.

There was only one person who knew her, who truly understood every facet of her. That was also a fact of the world. Leaning against the wall of the phone booth, Kyrie ran her fingers along the metallic cord of the pay phone, smiling into the receiver.

“Stop teasing me,” she giggled. “I just hate the cold. It's not a big deal.”

The voice on the other end was all she knew of Nomura even two years later, but she knew it well enough to hear every note of amusement. “Shall I knit you a sweater?” She prodded, in her oddly stilted manner. “God forbid you freeze to death now, just before your birthday.”

By the voice, Kyrie could guess Nomura was around her age, if not slightly older. She didn’t sound quite like an adult yet. Her voice was always rich with promise, and dark like a bottomless lake--smooth, deep tones, alluring in their mere existence, beckoning any listener to lean in for a closer listen. Beyond that, mystery swallowed her up—there was never any kind of background noise, and Nomura was always carefully worded to the point of coming off as awkward. The rare chance to startle colloquialisms or the occasional unflattering laugh from her was Kyrie’s greatest pleasure and highest achievement.  

She supposed Nomura had been pleasantly surprised by her forwardness in their first encounter. Nomura had since admitted that she had, at that point, never once revealed her own voice to someone over the phone—nor had she planned to. She had gone on to praise Kyrie’s stubbornness, and once the awkwardness of never speaking face to face had passed, Nomura too became quite personable despite her carefully monitored speech. They spoke regularly, often several times a week—never in person, and always through layers of Nomura’s obscure security measures—to the point that Kyrie felt confident asserting she trusted Nomura.

She ran errands for Nomura, as agreed upon in their first conversation—simple things like picking up or delivering small packages, or maybe watching a certain place for signs of specific people. It was shady business, even Kyrie knew that—even if she hadn't been raised with Sumadera’s black market trade in her blood, she would have smelled a rat. She was well aware that the packages that passed through her hands were likely illegal. That was fine by her. The work was easy enough, and if Nomura could make good on her promises, it was well worth it.

Even if it turned out Nomura could never live up to her lofty promises of freedom, the chance to earn her praise quickly became motivation enough to accept her requests. Her honey-smooth voice rained praises over Kyrie as if every simple errand done was a work of art or magic. The happiness in her voice, the words of praise that glowed in Kyrie’s heart long after their conversations ended—for now, those things were all Nomura need give her.

There was nothing for her to do at the Ushiromiya mansion, so Kyrie had been waiting at this phone booth for almost an hour, listening to the rain drumming against her small box. It was soothing. Rain didn’t bother her like cold did. The water hammering on panes of glass was a calming kind of deafening, drowning out the rest of the world, and the rivers streaking down the windows made the streets outside blurry—a separate world entirely, far removed from her little box. When the phone finally rang at the exact time Nomura had promised, it barely broke through the noise of the rain, but with the receiver pressed to her ear, Kyrie heard her voice clearly. Warmth filled the isolated box with each syllable Nomura spoke, and the cold world outside might as well be a distant memory.

“Born in November, and yet, so frail against a bit of cold weather.” Nomura taunted her still, with familiarity and warmth beyond measure. “Are the Ushiromiyas not clothing you properly?”

Kyrie scoffed. “They have shit taste. I buy my own clothes.”

“Ah, yes—you had mentioned a weekly allowance.”

“We’re spoiled kids,” Kyrie said coolly. “A bit of pocket money to buy the privilege of ignoring us.”

“Oh, to be wealthy,” Nomura hummed. “One can merely dream.”

A moment of silence passed between them, spent listening to the heavy rainfall. It was a comfortable silence, unlike the ones that seemed to consume every room of the Ushiromiya mansion. Finally, Nomura spoke again, and her tone had changed completely, startling Kyrie out of her relaxed posture.

“Kyrie, I need you,” she pleaded, quietly and intently. “I don’t know who to trust. Please.”

The hairs on the back of Kyrie’s neck stood on end at the sound—Nomura’s voice, usually strong and completely unflappable, now sounded more like a cracked pane of glass, crystalline fragility about to explode into a million irreparable pieces.

“What? What do you mean?” she gripped the phone harder, as if it would translate to Nomura somehow. “What’s wrong?”

There was silence, and then, a long sigh. “I feared,—you see,—no, I will start from the beginning. I have been hurt—by someone I should have been able to trust. I have been wounded so gravely, I no longer know where to turn. Kyrie—you are my best friend. Can I trust you?”

“Totally. Nomura, you know that. You know that better than anyone. What happened?”

Nomura always spoke at a measured pace, choosing deliberate words to conceal emotion and personality—now, she was a broken dam, words bursting forth and flooding them both. “It’s my father— _imbecile_ —his hatred of me has finally pushed him over the edge. He’s always hated us—me and Mother—and I just—can’t stand it. I can’t stand him. Not anymore. I wish he would disappear. Kyrie, I wish—well, no matter. The point is, he’s had enough. He walked. He hurt me, and walked, and I don’t know what to do. My mother is in shock. I have no one to talk to. I need—I must silence him.”

Mind reeling, Kyrie stammered, “He _hurt you?”_

“The least of my problems. He knows things, Kyrie—I cannot fulfill my promise to you if he talks.”

_“The least of your—”_

_“Bruises heal._ Secrecy is the only thing that lets me act, and he may choose to take that away from us. Now that he’s walked, he puts both of our futures in jeopardy. He is vindictive. He may rob me of the little power I have—if he reveals even a portion of my secrets, my hands will be forever bound. Kyrie, I promised to forge a path for your freedom, your happiness—I _want_ to help you. I want to build a life for you where you stand free to make your own choices, unfettered by the whims of Sumadera and Ushiromiya alike...And for myself—I too want to live. If my father wanted to, he could deprive both of us of our futures.”

Maybe it was just the sound of the rain, but Kyrie felt as though her heartbeat had accelerated to an impossible rhythm, drumming throughout her body like a frantic hummingbird’s wingbeat. Each time Nomura’s voice broke, another fissure split open in her heart, desperately running lacerations through her as though it would help her think. Her thoughts raced by, a million every second, and a cold numbness spread from her stomach to her other organs, dread contaminating her like a rot. If only there was something she could do, from her limited vantage point, with the limited power afforded to her—but she was an invisible person, powerless next to someone like Nomura. But then—

Like lightning striking from the black October sky, the thought planted itself throughout her body.

“—l him.”

“Kyrie?”

“I said, kill him.”

Nomura was silent, as if holding her breath, for a long time. Finally, with a shaky laugh: “Well, that would certainly solve the problem, but—”

“I’ll do it. For us. To protect you. This is the easiest solution.”

That was the truth. In the instant it took her to chase every path of logic, it was crystal clear, a pristine line from A to B—elegant, and certain. The path with the fewest thorns, and the fewest consequences. The fewest risks. It bloomed like the branches on a bolt of lightning, reaching across the sky in the blink of an eye, chasing each possible outcome and abandoning all but the single one that crashed to the earth. She was nobody. No one could tie her to it. Nomura would be free, Kyrie would be free, and the world would be wiped clean of one more shit-stain.

Simple. Elegant. Cold. A long-dormant hyena curled its lips back inside her heart, revealing a razor grin, ready to burst into frenzied laughter. Two years had not been enough to purge the Sumadera blood from her body. She suspected no amount of time could undo the lessons Sumadera had taught her. The coldness of predatory glee flowed through her veins and seeped out into her limbs, setting her body aflame with the ache to act.

In an unforgiving world, violence was king.

In a world that would only hurt you, lashing out first was the play of a victor.

“I’ll do it,” she said again, voice low and heavy with promise. “All you have to do is ask me.”

She could hear the smile in Nomura’s voice now, and it warmed her feral insides. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It will be,” Kyrie promised.

“As if you won’t mind.”

“I won’t.”

“As if a child could kill an adult.”

“I can.”

Finally, Nomura laughed, and it was cold and vicious and triumphant—dyed with the same hungry blood that pumped through Kyrie’s veins. “What would I do without you?” she said—“Oh, how I adore you.” Her voice dropped low, a primal snarl: “Do it, then. I want him dead. I want him gone. I want blood, Kyrie, and I _deserve_ blood. Understood?”

Trying to keep a cool head, trying to conceal the thrum of excitement in her blood, Kyrie smiled, turning her face into the cold glass pane of the phone booth wall. “Got it. I got it, Nomura. Don’t worry. I’ll protect both of our futures.”

* * *

 Nomura had sent a box of tools. It wasn't heavy, but it was big enough that balancing it took both arms.

Kyrie evaded the Ushiromiya family, ensuring her trip upstairs was unseen and unheard. If someone asked, she would say she had placed a special order for new clothes; the lie sounded paper-thin even to her, and the relief she felt at avoiding any encounters altogether was a pure bliss.

She cut the tape holding the cardboard box shut with a pair of scissors, holding the blades open and running one sharp end down the length of the box. Her mind was dark. Her hands ready. She opened the box like a surgeon pinning open an incision, imagining the blade instead running down a length of flesh, and a tremble crawled all throughout her body.

Kneeling on the floor, she sorted through the box, placing the contents out onto the carpet.

Nomura’s toolbox wasted no time on embellishment. There was a set of clothes, from the looks of it unworn, with the tags snipped off. Gloves. Shoes. A small card, and in delicate handwriting, a name and hotel address. It was cold, clinical, impersonal. In the middle of the package, tucked safely in between a jacket and the gloves, a sheathed knife lay waiting.

To protect the future. Kyrie unsheathed the blade. Its cold shine seemed to dance across her retinas, each inch of steel laced with promises. To protect herself. To protect Nomura. She looked at the card again. A hotel, a room number, and a name.

She was a random stranger to this man. As far as anyone knew, Ushiromiya Kyrie had nothing to do with this. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears like thunder. She was a random person, committing a random crime, and if she wasn't seen, no one would ever link her to it.

Oh, to be so beautifully _other_. Kyrie covered her mouth, feeling her own breath on her palm, hot with excitement and dreadful determination. Oh, to have the privilege of invisibility. Abandoned, forgotten, and dangerous. None of the errands she had run for Nomura in the past could measure up to this: this one, ultimate task, severing the chain of fear that bound Nomura’s hands, freeing them both, to be happy, and united, and live to forge a future they both could enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

# \- 1989 -

The day Sonozaki Akane found her again was just like any other. Loitering downtown, looking for trouble, Kyrie saw her coming from a block away. It had been five years since their last encounter. Kyrie remembered it well, but it felt like a lifetime ago. She was so much bigger now. So much stronger now. She stayed where she was, leaning against a red-brick wall in the mouth of an alley, watching the Sonozaki part the ocean of people between them.

“Nice jacket.” Akane’s voice was just as she remembered it; husky, with a constant stain of near-condescending amusement. The Sonozaki leaned back against the wall next to Kyrie, feigning casual acquaintances.

Kyrie smirked her way, burying both hands even deeper into the pockets of the sukajan Akane had left with her five years ago. “Happy coincidence that I was wearing it today. Touching reunion.”

“Pretty brazen Sonozaki flagging,” Akane remarked, not looking Kyrie’s way. “You had a change of heart, Sumadera?”

“It's Ushiromiya,” Kyrie said. “And—you could say that. If nothing else, wearing it keeps people out of my way, for the most part.”

Sonozaki Akane hummed agreement, pulling a box of cigarettes from her own sukajan’s pocket. “Want one?”

“I'll bite. Thanks. At least you got a new jacket. Those expensive?”

Akane lit her own cigarette first before offering the lighter to Kyrie. “You could say invaluable,” she said. “Ma does the embroidery by hand.”

Kyrie whistled her appreciation with a puff of smoke. “I didn't peg Sonozaki Oryou for embroidery,” she said.

“You'd be surprised.” Akane shrugged. “She was pretty upset when I lost that one.” She nodded to Kyrie’s jacket. “I’m glad you're still wearing it, and didn't, y’know, burn it or whatever—means her work’s still in use, even if it's not by me.”

“They're nice jackets.” Kyrie took a drag of the cigarette to let the topic dissolve into silence. “So—any particular reason you're talking to me? Even though you said we'd speak again, it's been _five_ years—I was starting to hope you'd forgotten.”

“You make a lot of friends with that attitude?”

“Nah.”

Akane laughed, a genuine amusement coloring her voice with an unpleasant sweetness. “I've been busy—let's leave it there. I just wanted to check in on you, Ushiromiya. Heard you've been getting your hands real dirty; if you catch my drift.”

A cold tingle ran down Kyrie’s spine, and Akane’s smile sharpened as though she had seen it. “I don't know what you mean,” Kyrie said.

“Don't worry.” Akane leaned closer. “I'm not here to lecture you on morality or to rat you out. I only want to find out if you're doing it for the wrong people.”

A spark of remembrance lit up in Kyrie’s brain. “Is this about that Jörmungandr thing again?”

“How astute. I guess you really couldn't forget that night.”

“I don't know anything,” Kyrie said impatiently. “Just like last time. No one talks to me about it, and I don't give enough of a shit to look into it.”

“Oh, that's right…with the Ushiromiya family, it's probably a pretty sensitive topic. Well, Jörmungandr is a bunch of terrorists—that's all. Their mess is fucking a lot of people over, so I'm going to expose them and set the record straight.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Kyrie exhaled a lungful of smoke at Akane, as direct punishment for leaning closer unbidden. “I don't work for them.”

“You really don't care, do you?” Akane smiled, even through the smoke billowing across her face. “Well, no matter. I heard all I need to know. Actually—one more thing—do you think my family was responsible for the Furude Extermination?”

“I didn't look into it much.” Kyrie shrugged. “It happened before I moved here, remember? But from what I’ve heard, you had both motive and means aplenty. So it wouldn't surprise me.”

“That's fine. Most people would agree.”

“You don't sound convinced. Dangerous opinion, for a Sonozaki—isn't it?”

She smiled, and it was a feral, teeth-baring threat. “Oh, I didn't say a thing, Ushiromiya.”

Kyrie pushed herself off the wall, stepping away from Akane and towards the busy central street beyond the alley-mouth. “Five years ago, you saved my life. I haven't forgotten that.”

“Is that so?”

She crushed the butt of her cigarette under the heel of her boot and sighed. “I'll keep an ear out. If I hear anything interesting, I'll tell you about it. That's what you wanted, right?”

Sonozaki Akane folded her arms, grin turned victorious, and tilted her head. “I'm glad I didn't have to spell it out for you,” she said. “I hate being too forceful, you know.”

_As if,_ Kyrie thought, but she kept that to herself as a memory of hot dog-breath and yellow fangs flitted through her mind. She rolled her shoulders, shaking the memory off, and walked away. Akane didn't stop her. A Sonozaki knew to let victories be victories.

The main street was teeming with people on their way home from their work, and Kyrie weaved in and out between them like an expert. People shied away from the demon on her back, almost as if on instinct alone, and she liked that. Whenever someone looked at her too long, it felt like a challenge, and the ravenous darkness in her eyes had them looking away soon enough.

The Sonozaki jacket suited her well—far more than Ushiromiya’s noble eagle would have.

A hand closed around her arm, jerking her back to reality. “Kyrie! Hey!”

She turned as adrenaline flooded her body into battle-readiness—and bit back a sigh. “Oh, it's you, Eva. Hi.”

Ushiromiya Eva, now twenty-one, wore more one-winged eagles than Natsuhi and Rosa combined. Kyrie was convinced every single item of clothing in her wardrobe must be embroidered with the eagle at this point. Desperate as always—overcompensating for her bare ring finger, Kyrie reckoned. Eva had matured, but not softened; as hostile and arrogant as ever, she was a woman and a warlord all in one.

Kyrie kept her face neutral as Eva grimaced at her. “You smell like cigarettes. You don't smoke, do you?”

“I was with a friend that does,” Kyrie said. She shrugged. “What are you up to?”

Inviting Eva to talk about herself was a sure-fire way to get her off Kyrie’s back. This time, too, it worked like a charm—practically dragging Kyrie along down the street back towards their neighborhood, Eva launched into a huge expose on her day so far. Kyrie only half-listened, enough to inject noises of approval or surprise as necessary, and it struck her—she really was, as Nomura had said, a level above ordinary people. Their talk and their feelings were a bore. Life with humans was like observing a tank of clever, but simple-minded animals.

Eva gestured grandly as her story grew more exciting, by her own measure. “And I know—every time I've said this, it's ended up not true, but this time, I think I got a location for sure. It's a little out of the city core, but a lot of commuter traffic comes through, so it'd be a grand spot for a restaurant—”

Kyrie played along, letting herself be pulled into the excitement. Eva’s direction in life had changed abruptly one day; as if struck by lightning, her dreams had changed all in an instant, and she had jumped into the food industry with vigor. She was young, but the Ushiromiya name was a great help to anyone seeking to start a business.

Maybe if she managed to stay afloat with a restaurant business, Eva would stop coveting Natsuhi’s spot as the heir. Kyrie was looking forward to finding out. The sisters were close, undeniable respect and affection between them, but the shard of discord in Eva’s heart was obvious all the same. The way she sometimes spoke of the inheritance with something almost like contempt made it painfully obvious how she truly felt. Had it been a true contest, rather than a predetermined successorship, Eva would have done anything within her power to destroy Natsuhi’s chances.

Kyrie played along with Eva’s excitement, but she wondered: had this change of heart not happened, would it come down to blood? Were all men designed for bloodshed, or was it only her?

Not that it mattered, really. After all, it would even be easier for her if the rest of the world was divided into kinds of prey.

# \- 1994 -


End file.
